[ Like the good soldier he barely remembers being, Flynn doesn't hesitate. He has his orders, and he barely has his own hands— like there's something else there at the ends of his wrists, like his fingers aren't his own—and so he plunges his hand into the fire the moment she says to, grasping quickly at whatever he can find and yanking it back out a heartbeat later. Flames chase his fingers; Flynn's heart pounds, and Olympia drops his hand, and between his fingers, still burning from the flames—
Flynn drops it all at once with a tiny yelp, already shaking his fingers off to dismiss the sting of hot metal. A little silver key goes pinging around his feet. ]
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Flynn drops it all at once with a tiny yelp, already shaking his fingers off to dismiss the sting of hot metal. A little silver key goes pinging around his feet. ]